


Peace and Quiet

by Proctor



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Banter, Frottage, Fun. Filth. And Feels :), M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Semi Established Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:01:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25663282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Proctor/pseuds/Proctor
Summary: After failing in his attempts to stop Jaskier talking, Geralt decides to make a bet with him.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 63
Kudos: 331
Collections: Abby's Witcher Collection





	Peace and Quiet

**Author's Note:**

> Hello fine people!
> 
> I love fics with a bit of the old 'keeping a chatty character quiet' trope, they've been scattered throughout almost every fandom I've ever followed, but I hope that I've brought something a little new to the table with this one. ;)
> 
> As always, I apologise to my cousins across the pond for any British words or phrases that are unfamiliar.
> 
> Hope you enjoy! :D

Geralt chewed silently as his gaze fell from the pink-hued sky to the final rays of evening sun filtering through the surrounding beech trees in the forest clearing. It was a warm night, too warm to be sitting so close to the fire, but after setting up camp (unassisted, unless you counted Jaskier’s unsolicited tent-pitching instructions), he had felt an obligation to keep an eye on their dinner, periodically rotating the skewered carcass over the flames –in this case, an unfortunate though pleasingly plump rabbit that had been inquisitive enough to approach his net trap. The alternative had been leaving the cooking to Jaskier, and that never ended well. All it took was the diversion of a pretty flower or a mildly entertaining hedgehog, and Geralt would return from collecting firewood to find nothing but a charred lump on a stick, barely recognisable as consumable matter, let alone as a creature that had once roamed the earth.

He took a final bite then picked his teeth with a shard of bone before tossing it carelessly to the ground. And it was only then, without the distraction of food, that he realised what the constant but largely ignored background noise had been throughout his meal. Jaskier’s voice, eccentric and upper-class, continued to rattle in his ears as he babbled about something that sounded distinctly mundane considering the enthusiasm with which it was delivered. But that wasn’t unusual, Jaskier could make an unexpected cough sound like a historic world event.

“...So _she_ said: ‘ _And that is why, Julian, you should never purchase wares from a man whose scarcity of prior customers is matched only by the scarcity of his teeth_ ’ and _I_ said: ‘ _Well, it’s a good thing we aren’t judged by our number of incisors, or else your gummy Aunt Flora would be chained to a dungeon wall somewhere having her arse flogged.’_ And that, as they say, was that,” Jaskier chattered between mouthfuls. “...Actually, while I’m on the subject of buying things I probably can’t afford, I’m considering a new outfit. Something bright for the summer, you know, cheer the place up a bit –goodness knows the people in that last village could do with it. Miserable sods. Probably the shit ale. So, _I’m_ thinking… yellow, like the uh, what do you call them? Canaries! Now _they’re_ jolly fellows. Silk is _obviously_ my preference. After all, nothing makes for a more satisfying stroll than the feeling of protein fibre rubbing against your calves. That said–” Jaskier paused when he glanced up and noticed Geralt staring into the heart of the campfire, brow furrowed in deep thought.

“Well now, _that’s_ a look,” he remarked. “What meaningful introspections and profound contemplations are drifting through that distant and impenetrable mind of yours?”

Geralt raised his head and held his gaze for several moments before replying in his low, gravelly voice:

“I’m thinking about ducks.”

Jaskier took a deep breath before slowly letting it out through puffed cheeks.“Of course you are,” he said, knowing that a hundred guesses wouldn’t have brought him anywhere close to such an answer. He wiped his fingers on a rag, folding it neatly and putting it aside, then draped his arms over his knees and leaned forward. “All right. Colour me curious. Any ducks in particular or just the sub-species of waterfowl as a whole?”

“They used to say,” Geralt began, calmly ignoring his question, “that if you were troubled by someone who couldn’t keep their mouth shut, you should cut out a duck’s tongue, boil it with nettles, and hide it in their evening stew, and when they awoke the next day, they wouldn’t be able to utter a word.”

Jaskier nodded as encouragingly as he could. It was perhaps the longest sentence Geralt had strung together in the last hour, so he didn’t want to appear ungrateful. “Okay. Yes. Good. Impressive folklore knowledge you have there. Bet it’s a hit at parties. Have to _say_ though, _liiitle_ bit difficult to see the relevance of–” Jaskier stopped when the penny finally dropped. “Ah. You want me to shut up.”

“I do.”

Jaskier nodded again, slowly this time, then pondered for a moment, opening his mouth to speak, closing it briefly, then opening it again. “At the risk of sounding like an idiot–”

“The risk is high.”

“Yes, all right, all right. Let me rephrase that. At the risk of sounding too clever for my own _good_ –and I’m most certainly not suggesting this– but hypothetically speaking, if you wanted to shut me up, wouldn’t it be more practical just to cut _my_ tongue out, and not bother with the whole duck business at all. Seems like a very roundabout way of doing something rather straightforward.”

“Have you ever seen a man bleed to death from having his tongue cut out?”

“No-I’ve-never-seen-a-man-bleed-to-death-from-having-his-tongue-cut-out, Geralt,” Jaskier rushed in a single breath then awaited a response… but Geralt said nothing, instead taking a leisurely swig from his waterskin before gazing back at the fire.

“ _Well?”_ he asked, jutting his neck out in a bid to urge him on, “what’s the punchline?”

“There is no punchline.”

“Oh. You were being serious. Right, well that’s… even less fun than I imagined. Any further elaboration on that experience then?”

“Not really. He was conscious throughout. It took him six hours to die. And when he did, it was in agonising pain, in a pool of his own blood and piss.”

A gust of wind rustled gently through the trees in the silence that followed. “ _Riiiiiight,_ ” Jaskier said, dragging the word out for a good five seconds before abruptly slapping his hands on his knees. “Well, thank you, Geralt, for thatinspiringtrip down memory lane, or what might _better_ be described as ‘a harrowing journey through a cognitive ditch _’._ ”

“You’re welcome.”

There was nothing more Jaskier could add to such a gory and unpleasant subject, though that may have been entirely the point.“So, should I be wary of my dinner from now on?” he asked instead.

“Only if you’re the one that cooked it.”

“I shall have you _know_ , Geralt, that I’m actually a very _fine_ cook… as long as I’m paying attention.”

“A thin margin indeed.”

“Eeh, somewhat. Interestingly, I once learned a little of the craft from a rather formidable tavern cook back up north –by which I mean that I came up short on an ale tab and was given the unenviable choice of working off my debt in the kitchen or being forcibly separated from my left testicle. Needless to say, and as you might have already surmised from your limited but not insignificant time between my legs–”

Geralt winced.

“–I opted for the former. There’s a funny story there actually –not one concerning my scrotum of course, I like to save those sorts of stories for when I’m at least moderately inebriated,” Jaskier added then gave a sentimental sigh. “Ahh, I remember it well. It was the middle of autumn and the air carried with it the fragrant scent of…”

Geralt ran a palm down his face. This was one of the many problems with Jaskier: he never knew when to quit and was immune to threat right up until the point where it was five seconds away from knocking him on his arse. It proved a temptation to do so, but he had no mind for unnecessary violence, least of all with someone whose only crime was stupidity and heedless self-endangerment.

“Jaskier.”

“...Of course, I went back to washing dishes after the mushroom incident. You should have seen it, Geralt, a tavern of a dozen men, curled up on the floor,convinced they were cabbages. Last time I go foraging for fungus–”

“ _Jaskier_.”

“Mm?”

“Be quiet.”

“You know, Geralt, you often _say_ that –usually with a greater employment of expletives, admittedly– but just _imagine_ how quiet and boring your existence would be without my extensive verbal insights.”

Geralt closed his eyes and tipped his head back, slowly inhaling then exhaling before letting his lips pull into a serene smile, eyebrows gently raised.

“W-what’s that? What are you doing?” Jaskier asked, prickling uncomfortably at the sight.

“I’m imagining.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes, tutting at Geralt’s trite humour. “Oh, bravo, Geralt. How _very_ original.”

“It’s so… calm in here, Jaskier,” Geralt continued dreamily, resting his finger on his temple, clearly refusing to drop the act, “so peaceful and… bardless.”

“Yes, yes. When you’re _quite_ finished.”

Having apparently proved his point to his satisfaction, Geralt opened his eyes, yet his smile still lingered. “Do you like a challenge, Jaskier?”

“Well, I’m friends with _you_ , aren’t I?”

“In that case, let me give you one.”

If this was another tease, Jaskier wouldn’t be happy, but out of intrigue alone, he was willing to hear him out. “All right. I’m listening.”

“If you can stay silent for the rest of the night, then I will _buy_ you that garish parrot outfit–”

“–Canary.”

“– _Canary_ outfit that you want. Better yet… I will wash you, dress you, and take you to a ball in it.”

Jaskier froze, blinking impotently over awe-struck eyes, allowing several seconds of silence to pass in order to process the information and compose himself before answering.

“Geralt,” he said calmly.

“What?”

“That is the most beautiful yet ridiculous thing you have ever said.”

“I know. My confidence in you is that low.”

“Ah-ta-ta. No.” Unwilling to let the additional comment ruin his fantasy, Jaskier raised his hand as a barrier to the negativity, briefly holding it in the air like a queen to her court before gently lowering it. There were a hundred things going through his mind right now, but he would need to think clearly if he were to have any chance of turning Geralt’s fanciful suggestion into a reality.

“I shall require the particulars,” he announced formally, taking the matter very seriously indeed –which was more than he could say for Geralt who gave a quiet snort of amusement, one that made Jaskier bristle. “What’s so funny?”

“Never before have I met a man to whom the concept of silence was so abstract and unexplored that he needed someone to tell him how to do it.”

“It’s a _bet_ , Geralt. Bets have conditions. If I am to commit to this then I must be sure that I won’t lose due to a technicality.”

“Such as?”

“Well. For example… am I allowed to whisper?”

“No.”

“Am I allowed to sing?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Am I allowed to make noises?”

Geralt squinted in confusion. “What _possible_ noises would you be making?”

“I don’t know, if I tripped and fell, would I be allowed to say ‘ow’?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Jaskier” he sighed, shaking his head. _This was unbelievable._ “No. Just try not to fall on your face.”

“Very well, very well. And… in the _unlikely_ event that I were to _lose_ … what happens then?”

“Nothing. Except that you will have no choice but to admit that your willpower and self-restraint are as woefully inadequate as I have always feared them to be.”

“I admit that most days.”

“Fine. You can muck out Roach for a month,” Geralt said, choosing to ignore Jaskier’s unwitting prompt for a harsher punishment so as not to risk deterring him. His proposal was more than enough to inspire effort, and really, neither the reward nor the penalty truly mattered, Jaskier wasn’t going to win, he would try, but would inevitably fail, yet it would buy a short time of peace and quiet, and that was all Geralt wanted.

Satisfied with the clarifications, tempted by the generous prize, and reassured by the surprisingly lenient punishment for _not_ succeeding, it didn’t take Jaskier long to reach a decision. He stood up and walked around the fire, approaching Geralt and extending his arm for a handshake. “Well, you drive a hard bargain, duck-maimer, but I accept your challenge.”

Geralt ignored the hand until it was awkwardly withdrawn, giving a brief nod instead, but when he noticed Jaskier’s mouth opening, quickly intervened. “We’ve started,” he warned, and watched Jaskier’s bottom lip snap to his top like a gulping fish, and thankfully, just as quietly. _That was more like it._

*

Geralt was pleased. He had managed to feed and brush Roach, sharpen his swords, and mix herbs by the fire, all in perfect peace. In fact, so absolute was the silence, that he had to check on Jaskier every ten minutes or so just to make sure he was still alive; for him, talking was an indication of life, or at least consciousness, and the absence of it could otherwise only mean sleep or death.

He was fine though, sitting childishly cross-legged on his bedroll, notebook and quill in hand, staring down at the page then looking thoughtfully up at the darkened sky, and whenever inspiration seemed to hit him, quickly jotting something down, lyrics no doubt, the pink tip of his tongue poking out the side of his mouth the way it always did when he was concentrating. It was… a little sweet.

Just then though, he noticed Jaskier give a mute yawn and a stretch, and suddenly became concerned. If Jaskier was tired then he would soon want to bed down for the night, and if he bedded down for the night then he would be incapable of talking, and if he were incapable of talking then he would… win the bet. _Fuck_. It hadn’t even occurred to him that he might actually succeed.

Geralt’s pride was in no way challenged by such a thing; he had lost bets before, card games too, and did so sportingly. It wasn’t that he was concerned with buying clothes for Jaskier either, his purse was heavy from the reward of a recent kill and despite the bard’s expensive taste, it wouldn’t leave him destitute. No, it was the second part of the promise, the one that he had made on a thoughtless whim and with regretful overconfidence. ‘ _I will wash you, dress you, and take you to a ball in it_.’ What had he been thinking?

Needless to say, Jaskier would milk the situation for all it was worth, partly because he had a proclivity for such behaviour, but also as punishment for his flagrant display of doubt. He would order him around as he washed and dressed him (probably adding specific and frivolous requests just because he could) while complaining throughout. He could imagine it now… ‘ _Where are you going with all that rosemary oil, Geralt?! I want to smell like a spring morning, not a spring roasted lamb!_ ’, ‘ _I do hope you’re less vigorous when it comes to washing my cock, Geralt. Of all the ways to acquire friction burns there, I find that the least appealing,_ ’ ‘ _How is it that you’re so good at_ ** _ **undressing**_** _me, yet you clothe me like you’re trying to get knickers on a fish?_ ’

Then, just when he had put him through his paces, Jaskier would parade him around the noble elite like a prize pony, arm in arm, and expect him to nod and agree with his largely exaggerated tales, sing his praises, and above all… be nice.

He sighed. It was his own fault really, and the honourable thing to do would be to accept his defeat with dignity and good grace.

But the night wasn’t quite over yet…

*

Remaining silent while he tried to write lyrics for his next song was proving a bit of a struggle for Jaskier. Normally, he would chatter to himself as he did this, repeating lines with slight variations each time to see which sounded best. He also tended to stop every now and again to ask Geralt a question - though he never really knew why, the answers were most often utterly useless.

_‘The sky, dark and murky…murky… Geralt, what rhymes with murky?’_

_‘.…’_

_‘.…’_

_‘Turkey.’_

_‘Okaaaay. It_ **_**is** _ ** _a song about knights losing their lives on the battlefield in the conflicts of war, but, you know, I’m sure I can slip a turkey in there somewhere.’_

_‘Geralt, how would you describe lace?’_

_‘Lacy.’_

_‘Lacy… lace?’_

_‘Mm.’_

_‘Geralt, help me here. Ahem:_

_Elegance and indolence,_

_She reclines upon the coverlet,_

_Arms loose like…like…’?’_

_‘Your morals. And good luck finding something that rhymes with coverlet.’_

Indeed, it may not have been helpful, but it had become so engrained in his process that he kept having to abruptly shut his mouth whenever he thought to raise a query. He also had to try not to look at him. For some reason, everything Geralt did interested him _,_ and he always wanted to know more; ‘what is that herb?’ ‘what does that potion do?’ and when he caught his eye, ‘what’s on your mind, Geralt?’ ‘Tell me what you’re thinking’.

He had done well so far though, and if he could keep it up a little longer, he would definitely win. _And my, that prize…_

It should have been the washing that appealed to him the most, but he already knew he was in for rough and careless scrub, if not because Geralt would want to make his displeasure apparent, then simply because he was unskilled in the art of pampering.

No, it was the ball that intrigued him…

It wouldn’t be the first formal event they had attended together. Nobles paid well for Geralt’s services and often threw lavish parties upon the successful completion of his contracts. And while Geralt resisted, Jaskier usually managed to convince him to make an appearance with the advice that long-term ties were worth the sacrifice of short-term suffering, and accompanied him whenever he could, using it as an opportunity to bolster Geralt’s reputation, as well as his own if the subject arose, gaining them both additional work.

It would have been easier if Geralt put the same effort in, but he refused to compromise his attitude for the sake of the higher echelons, often causing a ruckus with his frank remarks and grizzly tales –which Jaskier firmly believed were _absolutely_ on purpose. But while some were horrified, others seemed to find the whole thing rather refreshing and flocked around him.

Geralt rarely stayed until the end though, yet supported Jaskier’s flirtation and bedding of any remaining noblewomen as long as it wouldn’t cause undue drama –not unusual behaviour for a friend, but a little disheartening when said friend also happened to fuck you at fairly regular intervals. That said, if it was a noble _man_ that showed an interest, Geralt became significantly fiercer, scaring off the timid ones with sharp looks, and embarrassing the arrogant ones with sharp words, and Jaskier liked that.

Geralt’s chosen phrasing though, of: ‘ _take_ you to a ball’ made him wonder if he might accompany him in a slightly different capacity this time.

Not _too_ different of course, Geralt was hardly about to start introducing him as ‘ _Jaskier: my occasional bed-partner whom I take great pleasure in making love to despite my lack of admission to the fact, who brings joy and sunshine to my otherwise miserable life, and whose support and encouragement I would be at a loss without_ ’, instead of his last introduction of: ‘ _Jaskier: Bard. Philanderer. Imbecile_ ’.

His words did however, sound at least… companionable, that he might attempt to be well-behaved, tease him a little less, and maybe offer him more of those… ‘looks’, the ones when they were at opposite sides of a room, engaged in their respective conversations, and gentle yellow eyes would meet his own, and Geralt would smile softly, and he would smile back, and all their prior bickering and complaints would be rendered meaningless in a single moment of shared understanding.

….Ideally though, Geralt would then make his way through the crowds towards him, place a hand on his shoulder, and quietly tell him that he was ready to leave and that _he_ was leaving with him. They would arrive back at their rooms and Geralt would crowd him against the wall, kiss him, strip him of his evening finery, and they would make passionate love for the rest of the night.

…Of course, it would never happen like that. Asides from the fact that Geralt wouldn’t take the initiative even if he wanted to (stubborn mule that he was), they never had sex right through the night; Jaskier could usually only manage one round with Geralt before he was exhausted, and Geralt, who probably _could_ have gone on longer, was sated after even the briefest of fucks, content and sleeping almost immediately after. But the thought of them going home together was still a nice one…

*

Jaskier’s pleasant daydream however, was rather rudely interrupted when he suddenly heard a noise from beyond the fire.

It was familiar yet… unfamiliar, a low droning sound, varying slightly in pitch. He raised his head, following it carefully, and could scarcely believe it when he realised what it was and where it was coming from.

 _Gods strike him down. Geralt was… singing_.

Well, he _said_ singing, it was more spoken than sung, and the notes that were clear enough to make out were dreadfully flat, but regardless of skill, the intention remained. He shook his head, squinting, thinking, trying to make sense of it. _What was going on?_

As he listened more closely, it slowly dawned on him that it was one of _his_ songs (albeit an octave lower, and with substantially less finesse), one about a princess forced to wed a man she didn’t love for the sake of her kingdom –not an uncommon story and hardly his most cheerful piece (she dies horribly at the end), but people love a good a tragedy, and it was a dirge befitting Geralt’s dull tone.

*

Geralt finally felt the curious eyes on him that he had been waiting for. He had succeeded in gaining Jaskier’s attention but despite the temptation to look up, pretended to be completely ignorant of it, continuing to casually stoke the fire.

_‘They smiled as they waltzed,_

_beneath the chandelier,_

_The man’s lovestruck and wanting,_

_the lady’s insincere.’_

Those were the words, except he deliberately _didn’t_ sing ‘insincere’, but instead ‘cavalier’, knowing how irate Jaskier got about people using the wrong words in his songs, how he ranted and raved and caused a fuss. It didn’t go unnoticed. In his peripheral vision, he could see him bolt upright at the error like a startled hare. Geralt gradually lifted his head to find him pulling a face, one that said: _‘what the very fine fuck are you singing, Geralt?’_ It was priceless.

“Something wrong, Jaskier?” he asked with feigned concern.

Jaskier spread his arms wide in a: _‘Well, obviously!’_.

“Oh. The song. Hm. It doesn’t sound right, does it?” Geralt agreed, nodding slowly, trying to appear deeply concerned before making another attempt. “The man’s lovestruck and wanting, the lady’s… full of cheer?’

Jaskier shook his head.

“Warm and dear?” 

Jaskier shook his head again.

“Most severe? Rather queer? Quite unclear?” he reeled off one by one, and by this point, was no longer able to keep the amusement from his face.

And it was only then that Jaskier realised what this was, that he was being toyed with by an overgrown child, wickedly goaded into losing their bet.

He turned the page of his notebook and quickly began to scrawl. He then held it up, his head tilted to the side with an unimpressed purse of his lips, right beside the bold, capitalised, and underlined word: ‘PRICK’.

Geralt gave a low chuckle.

“Well now, that’s just _rude_ , Jaskier.”

Jaskier turned a new page and wrote: ‘NOT FAIR’.

Geralt found the naivety of that statement and the silent huff that came with it both humorous and charming. He rose from beside the fire and wandered over until he stood at the bottom of Jaskier’s bedroll. “ _Not fair_?” he said, then crouched down in front of him. “Life’s not _fair_ , Jaskier.” And the petulant pout he was given in response pleased him no end.

He then allowed his eyes to drift down past Jaskier’s open shirt-collar and between the spread of his butterflied legs. This close, he could feel his heat, hear his heartbeat, and smell him particularly strongly, an alluring mixture of the oil he used in his hair, the soap he washed with, the sweat from a day’s travelling, and a scent that bound them all together, one unique to Jaskier that always told Geralt when he was nearby, one that overpowered his senses when he had his nose pressed against his skin as he fucked him. His cock stiffened, and though it had not been his intention to spur him into talking with anything other than his words, another possibility occurred to him…

Jaskier was so engrossed in watching Geralt’s face that he barely noticed the notebook being taken from him and cast aside, nor the palm on his chest until it pushed him onto his back.

“I know what will make you more vocal,” Geralt said with a smirk, looking down at him, his yellow eyes glinting with mischief.

Asides from the statement itself, the expression made Jaskier apprehensive. Yes, he had seen it when Geralt was being a little devilish in bed, and that, he liked, but he also recognised it as one that flitted across his features just before he dealt the final blow to an enemy that had been particularly troublesome, a kind of… gleeful revenge, and Gods help him if it was the latter…

Geralt straddled Jaskier’s knees, framing his calves with his own, causing their leather boots to creak together. He reached down to Jaskier’s teal cotton britches and began roughly unbuttoning them, and when he was done, hooked his fingers under the waistband and hauled them down his thighs.

The smirk fell from his face.

Jaskier’s cock was limp between his legs, curled up over his balls like a frightened worm, the tip hiding deep in the hood of his foreskin.

He frowned at it.

“You’re… soft,” he remarked dumbly, not knowing quite what to make of it. Jaskier was normally so eager, usually rock-hard long before he got as far as undressing him, and the fact that he didn’t tend to initiate intimacy himself (rarely having an excuse such as this), made him believe that his advances might be especially appreciated.

He glanced up, and when he did, found Jaskier’s eyes wide like dinner-plates, his eyebrows trying to reach his hairline, and his chin disappearing into his neck almost comically. He looked...anxious? Geralt dropped his head and gave a soft chuckle, now understanding the situation, but also realising that seduction may not be his strong point.

“Did you think I was going to squeeze your balls until your eyes popped out your head?” he asked.

Jaskier pulled his lips awkwardly to the side and slowly shrugged in a ‘ _maaaybe?_ ’

“I wouldn’t do that, Jaskier,” Geralt said, and Jaskier suddenly felt a bit guilty for imagining that he might. “…Although…” he added, as if reconsidering “…you would certainly make a noise…”

Jaskier gave him a light, reprimanding slap on the arm with the back of his hand, and Geralt grinned at the attack, though it slowly melted into a smaller, gentler smile.

“No. I was thinking of something a little more… pleasant…” And Geralt reached out and began to run a palm up the inside of his bare thigh.

And that’s when Jaskier realised that this was, in fact, a seduction… of sorts, the first of its kind; questionable in intent, clumsy in execution, but… appreciated all the same. He took the hand on his thigh and guided it up between his legs to cup his balls, reassuring Geralt that he did indeed want his touch, though determined it would not make him break his silence.

Geralt held them in his palm, gave them a brief fondle and smiled at him, then looked down at his limp prick. “Where are you? Hm?” he asked, letting it flop through his fingers. Jaskier began to harden, sucking in a quick breath, and by the fifth loose pull, he was fully erect, his foreskin having drawn back to reveal the rosy tip that had been in hiding. Geralt inclined his head to the side and looked at it. “ _There_ you are…” he commented, sounding rather pleased with himself, and it made Jaskier’s cheeks burn. Did the man have any idea how excruciatingly embarrassing he was sometimes?

He struggled up onto his elbows and watched as Geralt lifted each of his legs in turn, removing his boots followed by his britches, throwing them aside so that only his shirt remained, before giving a sharp spit in his rough palm and continuing to gently bring him off, the saliva gradually warming his cock and making dirty little slapping noises as his length slid through the curl of his fingers.

“See? Not so bad,” Geralt said.

Jaskier nodded, and without looking away, reached out to Geralt’s thigh, fingertips blindly skimming the leather of his britches until they located his groin, twitching when they found the hard line of his cock through the fabric.

Geralt had been too busy to notice the questing digits at first, but when they lightly brushed over his erection, gave an satisfied ‘hm’ and moved into the touch. “You want that, do you?”

Jaskier nodded again, eyes lifting and fixing on his crotch, so he let him go and reached down to undo his buttons, amused when he realised that Jaskier was keeping his hand outstretched and hovering in the air so that he could hold his cock the second it was freed.

Geralt undid the first three buttons, enough to create an opening, but not enough to release himself. He crawled an inch or two closer and let his arms drop by his sides, waiting for Jaskier to fish him out of his trousers –a small but gentle tease. Jaskier however, continued to stare at his leathers as if his prick would magically appear, and when it didn’t, eventually looked up at him with the most witless expression Geralt had ever seen, one that said, with childlike bewilderment: _‘where is cock?’_

Geralt pressed his lips together and shook his head. _Jaskier was utterly hopeless_.

To ensure that there was no room for ambiguity this time, he took him by the wrist and guided his hand to his britches then slipped it inside his open fly.

Jaskier finally realised what was expected of him and let Geralt know of his enlightenment by giving him his best _‘Ah-ha, I understand this’_ look before rummaging around until he felt the warm, silky skin of Geralt’s cock. He got a good grip of it then slowly extracted it from the tight fabric, watching with delight as it gave a heavy bounce upon being liberated then stood stiffly and stubbornly in front of him, precome seeping from the tip. He wet his hand in the fluid and reclined comfortably on the bedroll with Geralt astride his thighs then began to steadily jerk his cock, adding one or two flourishes whenever it felt appropriate, and was gratified to hear the soft grunts given in response.

Geralt noticed, as always, the stark comparison of skill, but reached down and took him back in hand nevertheless, carefully matching his pace in the hopes that consideration might be accepted in lieu of proficiency. There were certainly no complaints.

After a minute or so of rhythmic mutual tugging however, he caught Jaskier staring at the crown of his cock, licking his lips, then shifting to sit up. Before his mouth got anywhere near him though, Geralt pushed him back down.

“Not tonight, Jaskier,” he smirked, easily resisting Jaskier’s further attempts to get at his cock. “You can’t talk with your mouth full after all.”

Jaskier knew that. While sucking Geralt’s cock was already among his favourite pastimes, it had also occurred to him that it was the perfect way to keep his mouth occupied.

“...Unless that was the plan.” Geralt raised a knowing eyebrow.

Jaskier looked at him with shocked, offended eyes as if aghast by the mere suggestion.

“That was the plan,” Geralt confirmed with a smile, seeing right through his feigned mortification. “Clever,” he said, before adding: “…Almost,” then crawled over him, his cock bumping against Jaskier’s as he moved up his body. Jaskier’s prick gave an enthusiastic jump beneath him, and though it may have simply been from the contact, it was more likely from the _novelty_ of the contact, a type they didn’t tend to indulge.

“Oh?” he said, surprised and amused by the reaction. “You want to spar, do you?”

Jaskier hadn’t really thought about it, at least not in those terms, but he certainly liked the idea, and apparently his genitals were in full support, so he responded by briefly lifting his pelvis to bump the undersides of their tips again before settling back onto the bedroll.

Geralt acknowledged the gesture and braced his hands either side of his shoulders then lowered himself and began rocking his hips, slowly rubbing their cocks together.

Jaskier looked down past his chest and was captivated by the sight; by the visible weight of Geralt’s cock pressing his own against his belly; by the way it lumbered around, heavily falling into his pubic hair whenever it failed to balance on top. A lesser man might have felt intimidated by such a close comparison of size, but Jaskier liked the way Geralt’s looked against his, the big, ungainly thing clumsily playing with his smaller, more delicate one, taking care of it as best it could. And the amount Geralt was leaking, _my Gods_. He was used to it of course, always reckoned Geralt’s excessive bodily fluids were a witcher thing, but to _see_ it all, from this angle especially, pushing out of his slit, viscous enough to dribble all over his tummy and down his cock, but dewy enough to connect them with thin tacky strings that snapped as Geralt moved…

“You think they look good together?” he heard Geralt ask, his rumbling voice breaking the silence. He nodded without looking up, still transfixed. A responding ‘hm’ that sounded vaguely like one of agreement took him by surprise though, and he glanced up to find Geralt gazing down at their cocks, a whisper of smile on his lips. He didn’t think for one minute that Geralt would be endeared by such a thing, and the revelation made his heart swell.

He reached up and held Geralt’s stubbled jaw in both hands, gaining his attention, then slowly began to pull him down for a kiss. He was met with an anticipated level of resistance –the time it took to drag him stiffly down would have been outrageous to anyone else– but he eventually managed to draw him close enough to press their lips together.

He knew that Geralt still struggled with the act of kissing though, especially those of a romantic nature, so he nudged forward and lightly bit into Geralt’s bottom lip, dragging it back with his teeth in a cheeky taunt –the kind of challenge that his battle-hardened witcher always seemed more comfortable with. Geralt responded immediately and fiercely, giving a wolfish grin and a playful growl then grabbing him by the hair and tipping his head back, crushing their mouths together and plunging his tongue inside, drawing back enough for a few sharper bites of his own. The skirmish was familiar, but as Jaskier threw himself into it, squeezing Geralt’s cheeks in his palms, diving in for licks and nips, boring his cock into his thigh, and becoming increasingly aggressive, he noticed that Geralt was gradually becoming less so, slowing, mellowing, until the clenched fist in his hair was a steadying hold, the harsh bites were tender sucks, and the tongued kisses were deep and amorous. Jaskier smiled against him. It wasn’t supposed to work this way; others grew more forceful as they cast aside their inhibitions yet Geralt grew more gentle as he discarded his.

The tussle and subsequent kissing must have sparked something in Geralt though, as he broke away from him, lips quirking at the edge, then dipped down to his ear and whispered: “Spread your legs.”

The sound of Geralt’s commanding voice rasping against his ear made Jaskier’s cock throb, but he reached out and pushed him back by the shoulder despite it, shaking his head.

Geralt retreated and looked at him, though his expression seemed more confused than offended. “Hm. You don’t want my cock in you?”

Of course Jaskier wanted his cock, he usually did, but he had thought they would reach their completion tonight through touch alone, and _that_ , he could do silently. But there was no _way_ that he would be able to stay quiet if Geralt fucked him. He had tried it in the past, muffling his cries into the pillows of echoing inn rooms, smothering his mouth with his palm, biting down on his sleeve, and he had failed. Every. Single. Time.

It wasn’t necessarily _impossible_ though. Perhaps if Geralt was particularly gentle he might manage it, but he needed to make that clear.

He raised a finger to get Geralt’s attention and once he had it, moved his hand delicately through the air in a curved line, slowly sweeping from left to right as if conducting a choir through the softest part of a song.

Geralt watched the gesture closely, seemingly interpreting it, then lowered his brow, narrowed his eyes, and turned down the corners of his mouth in an intensely serious expression, and said:

“Boat.”

Jaskier blinked once, then suddenly clapped a palm over his mouth in an attempt to stifle the eruption of laughter behind his lips. _Why the ever-loving fuck would he be talking about_ ** _ **boats**_** _at a time like this?!_ He squeezed his eyes shut, wet gathering in the corners, and his shoulders began to shake violently with mirth.

Geralt folded his arms and frowned at him. _“_ Not a boat then,” he said, unamused, and that only made Jaskier worse, tears now streaking his cheeks, his head falling back and lolling on the bedroll.

“I don’t think you’re taking this very seriously, Jaskier,” Geralt chastised, but did so only lightly, because in truth, while he would hardly call Jaskier’s laughter infectious, there were occasions that he enjoyed witnessing it; the way the soft skin around his eyes crinkled; the way his cheeks grew pinker and pinker; and the way his small lips curled at the edges with genuine glee. He only ever let a little of that enjoyment filter though, mostly in the form of mild exasperation or grudging tolerance.

Jaskier breathed deeply and calmed himself, still grinning as he reached out and rubbed Geralt’s arm to console him.

Geralt endured the pitying rub then watched curiously as Jaskier slithered out from beneath him, whipping off his white shirt so that he was fully nude before raising his finger once more for his attention and getting on his knees. He clasped both hands around what looked like an imaginary partner in front of him then began to rapidly jerk his hips, fucking the air with his cock.

And, well, now Geralt had seen everything. In the past, he would have walked away from anyone offering a display like this, considering it an indication that the person was touched in the head, but it was part and parcel with Jaskier, the kind of sex Geralt had never had with anyone else: awkward at times certainly, occasionally downright ludicrous, but playful, surprising, and dare he say… fun. So he gave in with a defeated sigh and decided to play along.

“Fast,” he suggested.

Jaskier waved a downward facing palm in an _‘almost’._

Geralt watched him resume his wild thrusting, gave it a few seconds then said: “stupid.”

Jaskier turned to him with a half-lidded, unimpressed look (which Geralt greatly approved of) then scrunched his face, baring his teeth and rutting harder.

“Rough.”

Jaskier nodded then crossed his forearms in a ‘X’ and shook his head.

“Not rough.”

Jaskier nodded again before continuing his sex charade, only this time, did it slowly and… unexpectedly gracefully.

For a moment, Geralt forgot the absurdity of the situation, and found himself mesmerised by Jaskier’s fluid motions, by the ripples that ran through his body from his hair-covered chest to his slim hips, his erect, wet-tipped curving cock moving gently in and out of his unseen partner. He was rhythmic, sensual almost, and though it had never crossed his mind before, he considered that Jaskier might be rather good when in charge of making love, that despite his terrible flirting (far worse than his own) and his reputation for having a questionable bedside-manner (which he could attest to), he knew how to please someone with his cock…

He laughed to himself at the thought, he was _not_ going to allow Jaskier to fuck him. Ever.

“Slow?” he suggested instead.

Jaskier motioned his hand over an invisible shoulder in a tender stroke and bent over to place a small kiss on it, the look on his face oddly heartfelt considering that this was a mere demonstration. _He was probably a sappy love-maker too…_

“Gently. You want me to fuck you gently.”

Jaskier gave him two thumbs up then lay down on his back, putting his arms behind his head and parting his legs, and Geralt didn’t know whether to laugh or weep at the ridiculousness of it all. Instead, he crawled between his thighs and smiled down at him.

“I think I can manage that.”

Jaskier smiled back, pleased that they had been able to come to an understanding through his efforts. He took one arm from behind his head, bringing his hand to his mouth then slipped his middle-finger between his lips and slowly started to suck it, sliding it in and out for a thorough coating. It was more for practical purposes than to show off, but he did like the way Geralt looked at him when he did this, his expression difficult to read, but his lustful eyes giving him away entirely.

He tilted his hips up and reached his saliva slicked finger between his legs then dipped it under his sac and began to draw circles of wet around the rim of his entrance.

Geralt stared. This particular act, one perhaps not exclusive to, but certainly more prevalent among men, always aroused him more than he would care to admit. He’d had little knowledge of it before Jaskier, and maybe that was the reason he found it so curiously thrilling –though it might have been the way Jaskier did it; unlike the fuss he made about almost everything else, he always seemed so relaxed and confident when he did this, blue eyes fixed unapologetically on his own in an intimate gaze as he touched himself.

His cock pulsed when he saw Jaskier push the finger inside himself, imagining how tight and hot he was and how good that warmth would feel around him. He managed to stop staring long enough to pull off his boots, britches and shirt, settling back between Jaskier’s legs naked, and giving his own cock a single pull for some stimulation.

Sometimes he would just sit quietly as he watched this, other times he would gently pleasure himself, and now and again he would slick up his cock in preparation to take him, nudging the head against Jaskier’s thigh to either a laugh or a complaint about his impatience… but tonight he felt like none of these would allow him the involvement he wanted. _Besides, Jaskier wasn’t going to break his silence without help_ , he reasoned.

Even in the low firelight Jaskier noticed the small change in Geralt’s expression and knew that a decision had been made, though _what_ decision was far less clear. He saw him reach out to his cock, and assumed that he intended to pleasure him, but instead, he ran the smooth back and rough front of his middle finger over his tip, gathering up his more modest amount of precome and bringing his hand to where his own was positioned between his legs. It was only when he felt the blunt fingertip stroke the edge of his opening that he realised what he was about to do.

He lay still as Geralt clasped a hand around his then carefully began wriggling his thick finger into the tight seam alongside his own, a little at a time, gradually stretching him. He tried to relax but a quiet gasp still escaped him as the digit burrowed further, and when it was finally rooted inside to the last knuckle, he looked up at Geralt with wide eyes, breathing through an open mouth, dumbfounded as they both sat, each with a finger inside him.

“I thought you might like some help,” Geralt said nonchalantly, as if he were assisting him in carrying his bags or making a pot of soup. It was probably just as well he couldn’t speak, or he would have had a most sarcastic remark to offer.

Before he could take the time to think of a non-verbal response though, Geralt grasped his hand more tightly and began to slide both their fingers in and out of him.

He shuddered, and his heart began to thud in chest, and he felt himself start to sweat, his cheeks growing hot from the excitement of this odd new feeling, one that despite his creativity and broad vocabulary, he could find no words to describe. And yet it was not merely from the sensation alone, but from the fact that they were doing it together.

Geralt could feel Jaskier’s temperature rise, hear his quickening pulse, and though his own heart was more steady, the beats were heavy, sending blood to his cock in gentle waves.

He pressed his finger firmly against Jaskier’s as they moved, causing it to rub over the roof of his channel, just below his belly. The sudden breathy –ah– that sounded beneath him when they both found Jaskier’s so-called ‘sweet spot’ was dangerously close to a disqualifying noise, and though he continued to finger him, thought that it deserved a mention.

“Careful, Jaskier,” he warned, a little smugly.

Jaskier’s gave a weak nod then reached down to his cock with his free hand and began to tug on it.

Geralt didn’t know if it was the sight of Jaskier pleasuring himself while they both worked him open or the possibility that Jaskier would spill before they got the chance to fuck, but he felt a keen urge to be inside him, so he held onto his hand and pulled both their fingers out.

Jaskier’s head shot up at the sudden withdrawal, and he stared at him with the appal of a cat that had been abandoned right in the middle of a good stroke.

“Don’t look at me like that, Jaskier,” Geralt smiled as he spat in his palm and covered his cock, “You’re going to get something better.”

He moved in close and pushed Jaskier's knees to his chest, smearing some extra saliva on his entrance then pressing his cock against him, watching Jaskier take a deep breath then relax as he let it out.

He tried not to rush, he ****had**** promised to be gentle after all, so he dipped the tip in several times, going no further than the flare of the head but adding a bit more pressure with each, gradually opening Jaskier up on his cock. Jaskier seemed happy enough though, being repeatedly fucked on his wide crown, his mouth open but his breathing steady as he took the gentle prodding, neck pulled in and down, head moving from side to side as he tried to catch a glimpse of where they joined –a fruitless endeavour given the angle and the obstruction of his cock and balls, but one that Jaskier still pursued regardless, as though the power of optimism might transcend logic.

Jaskier felt a greater force behind the next push and it was enough for the head to fully breach him, his body jolting when it did, his opening stretching around the widest part of Geralt’s cock, he still gave a soft gasp, but managed to refrain from making any other sound.

“More?” Geralt asked him.

He nodded, and it was closely followed by a long and achingly slow penetration. The usual discomfort was present, though the pain was dull at worst, the preparation having done its job, but the intensity of the fill made him press his lips tightly together to muffle a gutteral noise that he could feel rising in his throat, his eyes squeezing shut of their own accord.

Despite Jaskier’s best efforts, Geralt heard a small, strained squeak beneath him. It wasn’t really enough to break the rules, but it was a sign that Jaskier was starting to struggle. Perhaps he should have been pleased, it was supposed to be the goal after all, but instead, it bothered him, and for the first time tonight he began to doubt whether or not he wanted to win this bet at all. So instead of cautioning him or teasing him, Geralt found himself lying on top of him, sliding a hand up the back of his neck, and giving a soothing _‘Shh-shh-shh’_.

Jaskier stilled and cracked one eye open, then the other, looking Geralt up and down, not sure if the quiet hushing had just been a figment of his imagination. The closeness and reassuring hold convinced him it hadn’t though, and it suddenly occurred to him that Geralt was trying to… help him win. And while he should still have been angry at him for coming up with this wicked plan in the first place, the change of heart, the decision to do the right thing, even if it cost him, was so incredibly sweet and so very… _Geralt,_ that he could do nothing other than smile up at him, wrap his arms around his neck, and nod to urge him on.

“You’re ready, are you?” Geralt asked, smiling back.

Jaskier nodded.

“No more squeaks?”

Jaskier shook his head.

“All right then.”

Geralt gave one gentle thrust so Jaskier knew what to expect, and when there was no visible distress, proceeded to slowly rock into him.

This time Jaskier seemed calmer, in fact, he looked rather blissful, no longer trying for an explicit view but instead resting his head on the bedroll, gazing up at him with heavy-lidded eyes. His mouth hung open again, but the only sounds that came from it were heavy breaths, dotted with the odd hitched one.

They moved at this pace for a while, watching each other steadily, but Jaskier’s arms eventually pulled on his shoulders, suggesting that he needed more.

“Faster?” he asked.

Jaskier nodded. For all the to-do he had made about this being a gentle fuck, he was already becoming a bit restless and wanted to feel the brisker motions of Geralt’s cock inside him. Geralt complied immediately, just as he knew he would, hanging his head and thrusting quicker, making him shake on the bedroll. His breaths started to catch in his throat, and he could feel a bead of sweat trickle down his thigh.

He looked up at Geralt and found that sweat was glistening on his skin too, and that there was colour in his cheeks, and that his breathing wasn’t nearly as steady as it had been. He dragged him closer, letting his hands fall to his shoulders, gripping them tightly.

Geralt tightened the grasp on Jaskier’s neck in kind, feeling the nature of their sex make the familiar shift from one of want to one of need, and moved faster still, rapidly fucking into him, their releases now the goal.

It must have overwhelmed Jaskier because he started to hiss through his teeth beneath him, his face crimson, his expression desperate, frenzied, until–

“ _Rrrr-fuck,_ _Geralt!_ ” Jaskier cried out, spit spraying his chin as the words burst from his tightened lips, the sound of beating wings as a flock of birds evacuated a nearby tree.

Geralt stopped suddenly, holding him still.

Jaskier dropped his head back onto the bedroll, panting. “Ah, shit,” he wheezed in defeat. _That was it. He’d just lost the bet._

“Too bad, Jaskier,” came the breathy reply, but Geralt’s smile was soft and sympathetic.

“...I don’t…it’s not…it doesn’t matter...” Jaskier shook his head weakly, gulping for air.“…Come on…come here…fuck me…”

Geralt wanted that too, and he was glad to hear him ask for it, glad to hear him speak at all. He grabbed one of Jaskier’s legs and threw it over his shoulder, pressed the other bent knee firmly into the ground, pulled out enough to spit on his cock, and when the glob of it had trickled down the sides, resumed his rapid thrusting inside him.

Jaskier groaned. The shift in position had caused Geralt’s cock to rub against his prostate, and the faster he rutted the more it was attacked. “Gods…there…fuck…that’s perfect…” he panted and grabbed his cock, pulling madly at it. “…Don’t stop…don’t stop…I’m nearly–” And with a final cry, he came, all over his chest and stomach, droplets flying everywhere.

“ _Fuck,_ ” Geralt growled out at the sight of him, at the sound of him, and could feel his own release approaching. It was only a few more seconds, a few more thrusts, before he suddenly stopped moving, let out a groan, and spilled, his cock tensing with every long, gratifying burst of seed.

Jaskier lay there watching Geralt’s reddened face as he took each one, allowing himself to be filled with the strong, rhythmic spurts until they finally _, finally,_ stopped.

And with that, Geralt dropped his leg from his shoulder, gave a weary sigh, and casually swore.

Jaskier smiled, giving only a soft ‘ah’ when Geralt pulled out. He relaxed into the bedroll and caught his breath as he stared up at the starry sky. Geralt soon joined him, and the two of them sat quietly, naked in the middle of the forest...

*

“ _Soooo_ ,” Jaskier started, after several minutes of silence, “it looks like fate has decided that the world isn’t quite ready for the canary outfit then.” He knew fine well that the clothes weren’t the reason he had wanted to win, but felt the need to address his loss all the same. “Never mind though, eh? Besides, I could always get it the old-fashioned way, you know, by _saving_ my coin. I do hate saving though, and rather unsurprisingly, I’m not very good at it. I was pick-pocketed once you know, and I thought: _‘Gosh, if I’d only_ ** _ **spent**_** _it then there would have been nothing to steal’_. Also, you only live once, and–”

“I’ll keep my promise.”

Jaskier turned his head to Geralt and furrowed his brow, perplexed. “What…?”

“I said I’ll keep my promise.”

Jaskier shifted onto his side and looked down at him. _Surely he wasn’t serious._ “What are you talking about? It wasn’t a promise, it was a bet, and I lost.”

“I didn’t… play fairly,” Geralt said, a little regretfully.

“ _That’s_ an understatement. I’d call it contemptible sabotage. But what happened to..." and Jaskier quoted in his most exaggerated impression of Geralt’s deep, throaty voice: ‘ _that’s life, Jaskier’_ ”

Geralt gave a slow shrug. “Sometimes it is... Sometimes it isn’t.”

It was an answer very typical of Geralt, vague and simple-sounding enough to appear inconsequential, yet with an undeniable truth that hinted at a more profound understanding of the world.

“Did you... just decide this now?”

Geralt smiled. “No.”

“When then?”

“When I knew you were going to lose.”

Jaskier gave a quiet, disbelieving chuckle and shook his head as he realised that when Geralt had given him that big, sad, sympathetic smile and said: _‘too bad, Jaskier’_ , he had _already_ decided that he was going to do this, he probably just wanted to see his reaction. _What a devil._ And yet… it didn’t really matter, the point was that he _did_ decide, and really, of course he did, that was just who he was, and it was one of the reasons Jaskier liked him so much.

“Besides,” Geralt continued, his tone lighter, “it seemed a shame after the humiliation of getting on your knees and demonstrating sex for me.”

Jaskier let out a sudden sharp laugh. “Ha! Gods no! That wasn’t humiliating at all! You should see me when I’m drunk!”

“I have. It’s hideous.”

Jaskier tittered and gave Geralt a friendly slap on the arm. “So. You’re up for taking me to this ball and mingling with nobility, are you?”

“I am. And just because I’m feeling generous, I’ll even make mention of your more redeeming qualities.”

“You’ll tell tales of my heroic deeds, will you?”

“I said I would speak kindly of you. I didn’t say I would lie.”

 _That was fair, heroism wasn’t for him anyway._ “So I do _have_ redeeming qualities then?

“One or two,” Geralt replied, “though neither of them are subtlety,” he added with a smile, then tilted his head. “…Of course, with such high praise, you’re likely to have quite a following. You’ll probably have your pick of noblewomen to leave with.”

Geralt had expected an enthusiastic or cheeky response. _‘Why settle for only one?’_ he imagined him saying. But Jaskier’s smile was small, forced, and a little… sad.

“Hm? What’s wrong?”

“What if…” Jaskier began as he picked at the bedroll, his voice strangely quiet and hesitant, “…What if I didn’t want to leave with any of them? What if I wanted to leave with someone else… Someone like… you?”

Geralt felt his smile return. _This was never about the clothes, or the bathing, or the parading around. Jaskier just wanted a night where he took him out… then took him home._

“That… might be okay too,” he said softly, then watched as the corners of Jaskier’s mouth dipped to hold back a grin before gradually turning into something smaller and fonder, a look that he soon realised he was mirroring.

He cleared his throat and quickly changed the subject.

“I needn’t remind you that I don’t dance,” he said, lifting his chin, and heard Jaskier laugh.

“Well, you didn’t _sing_ up until this evening, but there you go again, subverting expectations as you so often do.”

“That wasn’t singing.”

“Some might agree with you,” Jaskier offered, raising his eyebrows and giving him a light poke in the arm.

“Mm.”

“Tell you what. I’ll leave the witchering to you; you leave the barding to me.”

Geralt smiled. “Sounds fair.”

“...Unless of course, you _really_ wanted to learn,” Jaskier resumed thoughtfully, “I _could_ teach you. I should warn you though, I’m a strict tutor. You would have to practise every day. But if you became good enough –and with your current level of skill, that could take _years_ _–_ I might let you sing with me. Oooh, hang about, now _there’s_ a thought. We could be a barding duo! We’d be famous throughout the land, ‘The Wolf and the Lark’ –no I’d have to go first, and ‘lark’ makes me sound like I just piss around all day. ‘The Swallow and the Wolf’ –no, that’s shit… ‘The–”

Geralt closed his eyes as the babbling continued, gradually falling asleep to the familiar and welcome sound of Jaskier’s voice.

*

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed that!
> 
> In retrospect, it probably wasn't the brightest idea for someone who likes writing banter to decide to write a fic where one of the characters isn't allowed to speak for most of it! XD I'm going to use the old 'it seemed like a good idea at the time' excuse. I hope that it didn't make the sex seem less friendly than usual. :)
> 
> I also hope that Geralt’s antics weren't too OOC. I mentioned in my last fic's comments section that my Witcher fics can all happily be read as standalones, but that they can also be read as a series because there is minor progression in each. Geralt speaks more, is more playful, and perhaps allows himself a bit more vulnerability as he goes along (still a total snark though XD) so it didn’t seem unreasonable for him to have moments of embarrassing sweetness and excessive trollery in this one, but it may seem like I’m pushing him a bit if you haven’t read the others. If so, I apologise.
> 
> The fact that Geralt mentions his thoughts on Jaskier being on top isn’t incidental either, I’ve just started writing my first Bottom!Geralt fic (the circumstances are… unique XD), and while I know that it isn’t as popular as Bottom!Jaskier, I knew before I even started writing these that I wanted it to happen at some point. I think after four fics it might be time.
> 
> The last conversation originally made references to Geralt's peevishness about men flirting with Jaskier yet not women, and also Geralt's tendency not to initiate sex. I omitted them because it became too dialogue heavy (more than usual XD) but I'll save those for future fics I may or may not write.
> 
> Also, I know that popular opinion (at least from tumblr posts, or maybe it's mentioned in the books?) is that Geralt has a lovely singing voice. I love that idea too, so I'm sorry for wrecking peoples' dreams with the suggestion that Geralt can't sing for shit. But I stand by it, he's useless. XD
> 
> Anyway, enough of my ramblings, I’m sure you have better things to do. But thank you for taking the time to read it. :D


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